by West, Dahlia
“I can’t tell if you’re joking!” Adam called after him.
Unfortunately for Adam, he wasn’t.
Chapter Three
Jonah patted the saddlebags of his Harley to assure himself that he was ready, then swung his leg over the bike and started the engine. He was familiar enough with the warehouse district just a few miles away that he didn’t need to dig out his phone and check the address. Plus, once you got close enough, all you really had to do was follow the cars.
They lined the two-lane roads surrounding the spot, parked in side ditches, filling the lots of industrial buildings that were closed for business this late at night. Jonah found a secluded spot far enough away from the busy center, parked his Harley out of sight, and grabbed his gear. He changed out of his steel-toed boots to lightweight Converse All-Stars. The difference in weight alone gave him a springier step. Mostly they just made sure he didn’t break bones.
He palmed his leather boxing gloves and jogged across the street, dodging late-comers who were trying to find a parking space. Pickup trucks and four-door sedans were bobbing and weaving like punch-drunk fighters up and down the paved roads.
Happy Hour always started early in Rapid City and seemed to last the whole weekend.
Jonah gave the large doorman a sharp nod and ducked inside the building.
It was teeming with bodies and noise, hot even though it was well past sundown because there was no air-conditioning. Jonah’s black T-shirt already started sticking to his torso.
He scanned the crowd, searching, searching, until he finally spotted a familiar face. He stalked over, across the concrete floor, skirting the edge of the growing crowd. Jonah didn’t get too close before—as though he had eyes in the back of his head—North turned and scrutinized his hands momentarily before giving him a nod. Jonah pulled on his gloves as the large man spoke.
“I got a good one, tonight,” he assured Jonah. “Something really special.” North’s wolf grin was always ever-so-slightly unsettling. “The take-home is high tonight, almost double what you’re used to.”
Jonah only gave a nod of acknowledgment, already settling into the calm mental clarity he’d need in order to win. Whoever North had tapped to fight tonight, if the purse was double, that meant Jonah would need to be at the top of his game. In Rapid City, it was mostly rednecks, farm or steel workers who were dumb enough to strap on boxing gloves and swing at other wannabes in a make-shift “ring” for cash.
Them, and piercers, apparently.
Being ripped, fit, and in a training gym almost daily just because he liked it, Jonah was a veritable gold mine for North, no last name. Or maybe that was his last name. Jonah didn’t know or bother to ask. It wasn’t likely that North would tell him anyway. He wasn’t particularly… talkative.
North sometimes brought in actual amateurs—guys usually from Chicago or Denver who needed some extra money.
Jonah was honest with himself; the lack of real MMA training and skill made those fights particularly difficult. So far, Jonah had never lost, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. He always wondered how much North understood that people like to root for their hometown hero and he wondered if that had anything to do with why North’s fighters were always tough but not impossible to beat.
Jonah could beat himself, though, on one of those nights. A miscalculation, a serious mistake, and he’d go down hard. He had to stay sharp.
“All right!” North bellowed, moving to the center of the large, dark room. Trucks had been lined up, headlights on and aimed into the building through grimy windows. It was enough to see, Jonah figured. Just barely, anyway. In lieu of an actual ring, duct tape had been placed in the shape of a large square on the concrete floor.
The crowd dutifully moved out of bounds, some of them toeing the line as closely as possible, wanting to be near the action.
“We got ourselves a fight, ladies and gentlemen!” North shouted. “We’ve brought in a real contender tonight—a champ, from waaaay down south of the border to challenge our little farm-boy here!”
Collective boos echoed off the walls.
Jonah tried hard not to roll his eyes. He wasn’t a farm boy, and he sure as fuck wasn’t little. But North worked a David and Goliath angle occasionally, to work up the crowd. Jonah had never pointed out to the man that a beer gut that added fifty pounds to his opponent might have made him bigger, but not necessarily more challenging.
North ignored the booing and raised one hand in the air. “Tonight!” he cried. “One night only. El Juez…The Judge!” He brought his hand down and pointed across the crowd.
From behind them, a hulking figure emerged from the darkened corner. People scattered, scrambling to get out of the way as the fighter strode purposefully toward the duct tape, toward Jonah, possibly toward a win, which would be Jonah’s first loss.
Jonah couldn’t help but think it as he watched the man approach. El Juez, or whatever his real name was, stood almost a head taller than Jonah. Where North had managed to find a nearly seven-foot-tall Mexican willing to come all the way to South Dakota was anyone’s guess. He had bulk but not the sleek, curved muscles of a gym-honed body. El Juez had the physique of a laborer—a migrant worker, perhaps—and a look that Jonah recognized as well as his own.
This man needed the cash. And it didn’t seem to bother him if it was dipped in Jonah’s blood.
Black tattoos skittered across the man’s torso. A marked contrast to Jonah’s own colorful ink that Adam had done for him. Jonah couldn’t read all the words; it was dark and his Spanish needed work. But the scales of justice and the angel of death on the man’s chest and abs spoke a universal language in which Jonah was fluent.
El Juez rolled his shoulders and flexed his calves. A former boxer, maybe, in his younger years. A man whose dreams of glory in the ring had probably been shelved long ago when the need for survival won out. He had the slightly concave torso of a man who’d missed too many meals for too many years. A permanent hunger haunted his dark eyes.
Jonah hated fights like these, when winning wasn’t really winning. He hated North a little more every time he came face to face with a fighter more desperate than Jonah himself. El Juez looked the real deal, though, or the ghost of the real deal, and so Jonah tucked in his mouth guard and slammed his gloved hands together to indicate he was ready.
El Juez did the same.
They did not bump gloves. North didn’t give much of a shit about sportsmanship. Or maybe it just made the fight seem more shady, more edgy, made the money flow a little more smoothly. Jonah didn’t doubt that North had accounted for every possible angle.
Before North could actually call the start of the fight, El Juez surged forward, across the ring, leading with a quick jab.
Jonah, always ready for anything in the ring, wasn’t caught off guard by the early start. He pivoted, twisted his upper body slightly and the blow glanced off his abs. The punch was solid, though, forceful and accurate.
El Juez had skin in the game.
And now Jonah did, too.
He came at Jonah again, with the same jab. Jonah bounced to his left foot, too slow, though and El Juez was already there with a right cross to the jaw.
This one didn’t just glance off. It hit square, and Jonah spun. He caught himself, though, the soles of his shoes screeching on the concrete floor. Before he could regain his balance, El Juez was on him. A sharp crack to the kidney.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Jonah twisted, put up his hands, shoved hard. He separated from the larger man before the fourth jab landed, just barely out of reach. Jonah spun, circling fast, coming up behind El Juez and landing two quick combinations, one-two-one-two, to the back of the man’s head. He danced out of reach as the large Mexican ducked and turned to face him again. His leg shot out, surprising Jonah. It caught him in the ribs and sent him stumbling back. He fell, ass hitting the stone floor hard, not out of bounds, though.
El Ju
ez launched himself at Jonah, who tried to roll. The man landed, knee first, on Jonah’s hip.
A growl ripped from Jonah’s throat as he threw an elbow back, back, back until it finally connected with El Juez’s mouth. Teeth tore into him, no doubt breaking the skin. Jonah scrambled out from under the temporarily stunned fighter.
El Juez rocketed toward him, arm cocked, gloved fist at the ready. He had the momentum of half the ring behind his next blow.
Jonah fought every instinct to dodge, to weave out of the way and avoid the pile driver coming straight at him. But this fight had to end. Jonah didn’t know how much longer he could last. One lucky shot, one miscalculation, and he’d lose to the Judge. Spectacularly.
Jonah knew if he didn’t wake up in the hospital he’d count himself lucky.
The shot would be a bone crusher, a rib breaker, if Jonah didn’t do something now.
Fighting was pain, though. Hell, life was pain, and Jonah, as usual, made the temporary sacrifice for the overall win. Instead of bobbing out of the way, he stepped into the punch. He rushed at El Juez, exploded toward him, positioning himself for a sternum shot that was no doubt designed to put him on the ground.
The fist struck hard and, despite Jonah’s efforts to clear his lungs, his breath whooshed out of him as pain flooded in. Maybe it hit square, maybe it caught a piece of rib. Jonah couldn’t worry about it. This was his chance, the best one he’d have.
El Juez hadn’t counted on Jonah’s willingness to take a beating to get himself closer to his goal.
Jonah’s left arm snaked out, gliding past the Mexican’s right-hand block. He hooked the man behind the neck and cocked his arm, holding El Juez tight.
Through a haze of pain and dizziness, through the blackness threatening the edges of his vision, Jonah brought up his right arm.
Jab.
Jab.
Jab.
Jab.
All fast, all hitting their target squarely, each one harder than the last as Jonah started to regain his senses in between blows. Blood and sweat misted his face, close as he was to his opponent. The crunch of bone filled his ears, satisfying only because it wasn’t Jonah’s own.
El Juez fell back, tumbling to the now-slick concrete floor.
Jonah should’ve rushed him again, followed him down to the ground and finished him off, but it was work enough just to drag air into his lungs.
“One!” North shouted somewhere behind Jonah’s shoulder.
The crowd cheered.
“Two!”
Jonah backed away, arm pressing against his aching sternum.
“Three!”
The crowd roared.
It was over. Anyone could see it. The Judge was not getting up. Jonah turned away, struggling to keep upright.
“Fuck it!” North bellowed and grabbed Jonah’s left wrist.
He raised it triumphantly.
“Winner!”
Jonah wasn’t listening. He wasn’t looking at the teeming crowd raising bottles and screaming at the top of their lungs. He cared about as much as the loser on the floor, honestly.
Chapter Four
Outside, away from the crowd, North counted Jonah’s cash and handed it over. For a brief moment, he refused to let go, though. “Jonah,” he said in a low rumble.
“No,” Jonah replied, prying the money out of the man’s grip.
North shook his head, disappointed. “Boy—”
“Nope,” Jonah repeated and turned on his heel.
They’d had this conversation enough times, Jonah felt, but North was like a dog with a bone. He wanted to take Jonah to Vegas, train him, make real money, he’d said. But Jonah wasn’t going to leave Rapid City.
“Your family needs the money more than they actually need you!” North called after him.
Jonah frowned and kept walking. He hoped that wasn’t true. It might be. The Starks might be able to live without Jonah, but Jonah didn’t think he could live without them. No amount of money was tempting enough to even try.
He made his way toward his Harley, shoving the money into his front pocket. He’d almost made it to his ride when, in his peripheral vision, someone separated from the crowd that was now spilling out the doors. They sped toward him. Jonah’s fist rose, always at the ready, but a swirling cloud of perfume, hair, and glitter collided with him and he managed to repress his fight instinct.
“I saw you fight,” the girl said breathlessly. “You were amazing!”
As bold, eager hands glided over his body, his flight instinct kicked in instead. Gently—but firmly—he gripped the girl’s wrists and pried her off of him. Rather than being offended, her red lips spread into a grin as she thrust out her tits. The points of her nipples, barely covered by her shirt, pressed into his chest.
“Do you like it rough?” she breathed, twisting her wrists in his grip. “I can play rough.” Her eyes flashed and Jonah could see they were too shrewd for his taste, too calculating. Hard to know which bulge in his pants this girl was really after—his cock or his cash.
“I’ll do anything,” she half-whispered, but it was just loud enough to be heard by any other girls standing nearby. “You can make me do anything.”
Disgust replaced mere annoyance and Jonah fought the urge to push her away. Instead, he simply let go of her arms. She stumbled back of her own accord then landed on her ass with an ‘oomph’.
“Hey!” she shouted angrily.
Jonah ignored her and turned away, anxious to just get home.
“What the fuck?” someone yelled loudly, above the dispersing crowd.
Jonah sighed and, though he didn’t want to, forced himself to turn back.
A large corn-fed dude crossed the lot, leaned down, and helped her up. She smiled at him gratefully while shooting daggers at Jonah. The Meathead seemed excited by the prospect of coming to her rescue and probably the possibility of a glitter-soaked reward.
Jonah didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, he hoped they lived a long, happy life together telling their grandkids how they’d met in an abandoned parking lot while watching an underground fight. He was about to walk away when she whispered something to the Meathead. He turned to level a gaze at Jonah.
Jonah fought hard not to roll his eyes. Some women were troublemakers. Of course, some guys were, too, Jonah reminded himself as Meathead comically punched his fist into his palm.
The resulting smack was lost in the din of the crowd watching the current fight in the duct-taped ring several feet away.
“You fucking hit her!” Meathead shouted above the noise.
At that Jonah did roll his eyes. “The hell I did.” He turned and started once more for the Harley parked just around the corner of the next building.
“Get back here!” Meathead shouted.
Jonah ignored him.
“Hey!” Meathead called again.
Jonah heard the crunch and scrape of cowboy boots on the crushed gravel coming up behind him.
“Hey,” Meathead repeated, closer now. “Don’t walk away from me, fag!” He grabbed Jonah’s shoulder.
Jonah pivoted, grabbed his wrist and twisted it. With his free hand he punched Meathead in the mouth. He winced a bit, as the guy’s tooth split his knuckle. He supposed it was worth it, though, because he felt the satisfying snap of a tooth that went flying. It was too dark to see where it had landed, but Jonah didn’t really care.
The Meathead grabbed his bloody mouth and forgot all about Jonah for the moment. Jonah took that as his cue to leave. He was kind of proud of himself as he ducked out of the warehouse. Years ago he would’ve kept swinging. But he was no longer a scared little boy, confused by his past and uncertain of his future. Jonah knew exactly who he was now and exactly what he wanted.
Chapter Five
“Brick!” someone shouted from behind him.
The ball ricocheted off the rim and Jonah cursed under his breath. Gym class sucked and this particular gym class sucked the most out of every school he’d been to so far
. Their teacher, Mr. Greene, always seemed more interested in plumbing the depths of his nose with his finger than anything else. Today he’d moved on to ear wax, though. Jonah figured by Halloween the man would be surreptitiously scratching his balls through the pocket of his shorts.
Why the man wore the actual school’s gym uniform, but never got up off his ass, remained a mystery that no one might ever solve.
“I told you not to pick that one!” Aaron Granger huffed.
For a second, Jonah thought he was talking about Mr. Green.
But Tommy Boyles grimaced at Jonah and then shrugged at Granger. “Sorry!” he whined.
Granger snatched the ball from the shorter kid and headed toward the out-of-bounds line. Along the way, he purposely shouldered Jonah. “Dumb fuck,” he muttered as he passed.
Jonah ground his teeth but didn’t respond. Greene might not be paying a damn bit of attention to their game, but the man would notice a fight if one broke out. And Jonah had promised the Starks that he wouldn’t fight anymore. It seemed like a good compromise to keep him out of that idiot psychologist’s office.
How did you feel when you hit him, Jonah?
Like a million bucks, Doc. If I hit you, too, think I’d be cured for good?
So that was the deal. No fighting, no psychologist.
Tripping wasn’t fighting, though, and as Granger passed the ball inbounds to Boyles and then rushed at his own teammate to steal it back from him like the ball-hog he was, Jonah stuck his foot out.
Granger sprawled and the kid guarding him jumped back, apparently fearful of someone blaming him for a foul. But one look at Granger’s pinched, red face told Jonah that the kid knew exactly who’d sent him to the floor.
“I’m on your team!” Granger cried as he jumped to his feet. “Can’t you fucking play? Don’t you even know the rules? I’m. On. Your. Team.”
Jonah knew a fair bit about basketball, through no actual interest of his own. He also knew that Aaron Granger was on no one’s team but his own. He didn’t say any of this, though. Because No Fighting.